


Flowers in their eyes

by lilhex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Family, Family Romione, Gen, Growing Old Together, Married Life, Romione Secret Santa, Vow renewal, wedding anniversary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 18:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9198140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilhex/pseuds/lilhex
Summary: Ron and Hermione are getting ready for an anniversary celebration, and try to come in terms with Rose and Hugo not coming.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for caterina-is-queen for the 2016 Romione Secret Santa exchange on Tumblr (although it's been slightly edited since). She asked for Romione family fluff, and something like a vow renewal or second wedding, which was a bit of a challenge for me since I'm not aquainted with these foreign concepts at all (HAHA), but I hope that it's something enjoyable in the end!  
> There's some mild (?) language and kissing here, hence the T rating, but mostly it's safe (if i'm to be the judge of that).
> 
> (also: if you think The Gambler wasn't playing in the background non-stop then sadly ur mistaken whoops)

Hermione awakes on that morning, the calm morning in the beginning of spring, the last snow of the year still slowly melting just outside the window, and it’s already been twenty-three years she can’t seem to recall, and amidst the early-blooming flowers and the morning dew she is frightened out of her mind, and her hands are stretching over the bed, looking for Ron.  
  
But he is not there, she is searching for her husband among empty sheets and then she’s up, and running, calling out his name, climbing down the stairs and he’s calling her name, and she turns with a start.  
  
‘Ron!’ she cries, trying to hide her relief in mock anger, already scolding him, ‘Don’t frighten me like that! What are you doing out of bed that early, anyway?’  
  
‘Making breakfast,’ says matter-of-factly, nodding to the spatula in his hand. Slowly, she lets the warm scent of frying pancakes overfill her nostrils. _Of course_ he’s up early making breakfast. Where else could he be? What disaster could’ve struck them here, in this house?  
  
But he’s hugging her now and kissing her softly and whishing her a good morning, and promising he’s not going anywhere, and she wishes she could reassure him she _knows_ , she’d never been worried he had left, but after twenty-three years of marriage, and even more of being friends and lovers, of being together, he still could never bear to live with it if he forgave himself, and that small part of him, the one that resurfaces when times get rough, always apologizing and promising things she already knows, she lets it be, because she knows his demons as well as hers are far from dead, and they are bound to keep coming back. Promising, over and over again, to never leave her side when they’re falling asleep at night. Waking up in an empty bed and thinking of the worst. But it’s both their job to put each other’s demons to sleep for as long as possible, and then still be there when they awake again.  
  
And it’s over and over and over, and now they’re living in a cottage with a flower garden, the very same home their kids grew up in, and yet they linger around even here, among the softly creaking planks, buried in the flowerbeds, between the sofa cushions and on dusty corners. But it’s all going to be alright, she thinks, because it is, it is, it _is_ , it’s their anniversary this evening and the smell of burning pancakes in the kitchen, and Ron is running and she’s laughing, and then they’re both laughing so much they wake the dog. Poor old thing seems to need more and more rest these days, and he can’t seem to be able to at least have that.  
  
‘You’d think we’d have the decency to let him sleep on a Sunday morning,’ she says, petting him on the head lazily.  
  
‘It’s not just any Sunday morning,’ argues Ron from the kitchen, ‘he should be up and ready to welcome everyone!’  
  
Hermione bites her lip at that, and catches Ron’s eye just for a moment before he turns again to his ongoing attempts to save breakfast. Determined not to get herself involved in that show, Hermione withdraws in the living-room, where Ron’s scent, mixed with that of a fresh-cooked breakfast and hot tea follows her in ten minutes later, to find her facing the slow-burning fire. He leans in forward to place a small kiss on her cheek and a warm mug on her hands, and she accepts both gratefully. No one can make tea better than Ron, and the warmth cupped in her hands is more than welcome right now.  
  
‘Remember our first year here? It was Hugo’s first snow,’ Ron mumbles as he lazily wraps his arms around her and presses his body against his back, burying his head at the base of her neck. She hums in response, her eyes glued on the picture on the mantelpiece of the four of them, gathered around their first snowman in the garden, Rose and Hugo barely toddlers, all wrapped tightly in travelling cloaks, scarves and gloves, waving and grinning endlessly.  
  
‘And he could barely talk and walk, and the first thing he said when he woke up and everything was white was “it’s all milk!”’ Ron is laughing now, and she smiles.  
  
‘Rose didn’t remember her own first snow, of course, but she didn’t miss a chance to taunt him, did she? Always has to know best,’ he’s shaking his head meaningfully now, and places another kiss on Hermione’s cheek as he begins to gently rock them back and forth.  
  
‘Oh, you’re always going on and on about how she’s so much like me,’ she’s rolling her eyes, ‘but she’s always rather reminded me of you,’  
  
‘Nah, she has your brains. They both do.’  
  
‘Hugo has _your_ brains. He’s even beat you at chess. It just so it happens he’s also studious. It’s Rose who has your work-ethic.’  
  
‘And your brains,’ he insists, and she lets him. There she is, on another picture of the four of them, on King’s Cross station on the first day of her fifth year, beaming as the Prefect’s badge shines bright on her chest. On another picture nearby, taken just two years later, she’s on her own, and it’s the Head Girl badge this time.  
  
‘She didn’t get the badges without a fair amount of detentions to balance them out, though, did she?’ Ron chuckles close to her ear.  
  
‘Just to make sure we’re both proud,’ Hermione adds.  
  
‘Oh I don’t know about you, love, but none of them ever had to do much to make me proud,’ he jokes, but she’s shaking her head.  
  
‘Me neither,’ she says, and hopes she’s not about to tear up, ‘not really, no matter how hard it is to believe.’  
  
‘It’s not,’ he assures her. ‘They know.’  
  
‘They know now, maybe. I reckon Hugo spend his teenage years trying to live up to Merlin knows what expectations he thought we had of him.’  
  
‘Well it’s a hard life, being the not-golden child of war heroes,’ Ron says sagely. ‘But he worked his way around it, didn’t he?’  
  
Hermione chuckles at the memory, and they both fix their eyes on the picture of the four of them tightly hugged by the shoulders amidst the ruins of the Atrium at the Ministry, Hugo grinning toothily despite the cuts and the dirt on his face and robes, while Aurors all around them walk towards the elevators, escorting criminals in chains to their Headquarters.  
  
‘He brought Harry so much trouble that night, the bastard, I’ve never been prouder—ow! Sorry, Merlin, Hermione.’  
  
Withdrawing her elbow from his ribs with a satisfied smile, Hermione sips her tea quietly for some time.  
  
‘He’s your son through and through,’ she says, shaking her head, pretending to be fed up, but not really, ‘marched straight into the Ministry to fight a gang of rogue criminals the minute he heard Harry and the others were having trouble, then felt better about himself when we told him he had got us worried sick.’  
  
‘More like yelled at his face that seeing him in the scene took fifty years off of your lifespan right after slapping him for the first and last time in your life, but yeah,’ Ron says. ‘I can live with myself knowing they’re both as cheeky as it gets despite their good marks. Look at him grin,’ Ron nods towards the picture. Hugo looks particularly satisfied with himself whereas Rosie, who had missed most of the action that night is wearing a frown that would’ve made anyone who didn’t know she was Hermione’s daughter think was earnest, as she’s standing with her arms crossed, shooting cross looks to her father, who has an arm wrapped around the shoulders of each child, and is grinning as broadly as his son, the proudest dad to ever Dad, be it then or now.  
  
‘And then you insisted Harry _took that picture_! Honestly, Ronald, sometimes I can’t believe you, our son had just wrecked the Ministry—’  
  
‘He did half their job for them! The Auror office should be thanking him, Harry was more than happy to capture the moment!’  
  
‘I’ve never seen Harry look more done with us, Ron, and that’s saying something, he was right there when we kissed for the fir—in the middle of the Battle of Hogwarts, that is.’  
  
They are overcome by a fit of giggles so strong she has to place her mug on the mantelpiece to keep from spilling tea everywhere. There they are, the pictures from their best of times, their wedding picture, Rose and Hugo’s first pictures from the hospital, their first snow in their new home, the family attending the World Cup in Brazil, Ron and the kids all decked in green, Rose and Hugo with Freddie and Roxie in front of Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, and then there are so many pictures of the four of them with Teddy and the Potters, and all the Christmas pictures of the entire extended family at the Burrow, and then slowly their laughter fades and she turns to face Ron, starring deep into his eyes with urgency, grabbing his hands harder than she probably meant to, but unable to help her grip regardless.  
  
‘They’re not coming, are they?’ she whispers. ‘They’re not gonna make it,’ and she’s about to tear up again.  
  
‘Shhh,’ Ron coos and they hold each other tightly. ‘They’ll be back next Christmas, they’re both so busy. It’s OK. It’s just an anniversary,’ he says, although they both know it’s much more than that that this year.  
  
‘Ron,’ she manages, knowing the tears won’t be long, ‘do you really… think… we were… good… parents?’  
  
He freezes for a moment, just a moment, but then his hands are cupping her face and stroking her hair, cut so short these days, and he’s kissing her and wiping the tears away.  
  
‘You are the best mother I’ve ever known,’ he says simply, looking her straight in the eye. ‘You’re the best mother for my children I could ever dare hope for, and more.’  
  
She’s nodding, but then she’s shaking her head, and sobbing despite herself.  
  
‘No, that’s you,’ she says in a watery smile. ‘You’re the best father for my children, I’m—’  
  
‘What? Devastatingly awesome?’ he offers, and she chuckles.  
  
‘I was so— all business, wasn’t I? Never at home much.’  
  
Ron shrugs. ‘You were there when it mattered. And you had house elves’ rights to take care of, too.’  
  
‘What about- my children? Was I ever there for anything but to criticize? Did I ever—really—connect—with—th—them?’ It’s raining hard now.  
  
‘Of course you did! And—’  
  
‘It hit me like a troll’s cub when Hugo first told us he wanted to be a marine magiczoologist! And Rosie was one wild thing for the most part—’  
  
Ron laughs at this, ‘Well, she’s our daughter, off to invent counter-curses for the Unforgivables…’  
  
Hermione hiccups a giggle, too. ‘We had it coming, hadn’t we?’ Ron presses their foreheads together, and they smile for a little while, before Hermione’s withers away, and she asks the question that has been burning her, ‘Where was I all the time?’  
  
‘Shh… you were right here, Hermione. Right here. They always had you to turn to when things got rough, you were always the serious parent, you were so reliable. And I was always there to take care of the small things on sunny days, we… we made it work that way.’  
  
Hermione wants to bury her face in Ron’s chest again and seek comfort there, but she knows him well enough by now to recognize his insecurities everywhere, and he’s not fooling her.  
  
‘Ron…’ she breathes shakily, ‘don’t you worry. You were perfect, Ron, perfect, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have…’  
  
He pushes his lips together and shakes his head as he softly caresses her cheek.  
  
‘Of course you should’ve brought it up. It bothers you,’ he simply acknowledges, and she nods. They both breathe in deeply, calming themselves.  
  
‘We’re still not alright, are we? Not completely,’ he says after a while.  
  
Hermione shakes her head. It took them years to get where they are now, and there’s still so much left to go. Part of her wonders if they’ll ever be completely “alright” ever again. Then another part of her thinks that as long as they are together, it could never really matter.  
  
‘We made it, though, Ron,’ she whispers, holding his hands tight, and he squeezes back, nodding. ‘We had two children- we might’ve wanted more, but, well—’  
  
‘Sometimes it’s important to remember not to get too cocky,’ Ron finishes, with a weird sideways grin.  
  
‘Well… yes,’ she agrees reluctantly. It had all been high hopes and butterflies back then, back when they had started to see their future in each other for the first time; when they had first agreed to have children of their own, it was a second Burrow they had been picturing. But then they had Rose, and she was the only thing that mattered, until a year later Hugo came, and was the greatest gift to their family they could’ve ever asked for, and then, with two babies to wake them up at night as well as their own nightmares, they realized there could be no more for the time being. And “the time being” became years, and twenty-three of these later, the two children they did have are away and have been for quite a while, and last time they corresponded they both said they probably wouldn’t be making it home for their parents’ anniversary.  
  
‘Shh… easy,’ it’s her turn to coo him now and cup his face, and he relaxes at her touch, closing his eyes, letting his head fall on her shoulder, where she can feel him chuckle for some reason. ‘Breakfast is getting cold, love,’ she reminds him.  
  
***  
  
After lunch that day they find themselves cuddled close on the sofa, the dog at their feet, old photo albums open at their laps, reminiscing once more over old pictures. But this time there’s no tears, the demons are fast asleep again, the sun is shining bright outside and they’re only laughing, and warm, and still very much in love.  
  
‘Should we get ready, then?’ Hermione asks as she leans in to kiss Ron on the cheek.  
  
‘We have four hours!’ he resists, nodding towards the clock at the wall for emphasis. Ron and Hermione’s hands point at _home_ , whereas Rosie’s points at _travelling_ and Hugo’s at _work_.  
  
Consulting her wristwatch, Hermione realizes that he is actually right, but that does nothing but fuel her argument.  
  
‘The earlier the better. We have a lot to do.’  
  
‘But the house is spotlessly clean! It runs on magic! And you’ve already decided what you’ll wear a month ago, c’mon, how long will doing your hair _really_ take?’ he groans, afternoon-sleepy and perfectly unwilling to leave the couch and his wife’s arms.  
  
Hermione rolls her eyes as she gets up. ‘We know the first guests will be coming in two hours—’  
  
‘That’s two hours too early!’  
  
‘That’s Harry and Ginny we’re talking about!’  
  
‘Fair enough. We’ll get them to give us a hand with the preparations, then!’ Ron lights up and he reaches out to pull Hermione by the hand back on the couch. She gives a yelp and they collapse back on the cushions, giggling and fake-wrestling, which soon turns into an impromptu pillow fight, and then, once things calm down, to a soft and slow kissing session.  
  
‘Oh Merlin the powerful, spare me, please!’  
  
There’s the noise of a plunger being pulled out, and the both of them turn startled to gape at the source of the voice, a young woman with frizzy brown hair and stylishly ripped robes standing at the doorway, arms crossed and tapping a foot impatiently on the floor, right next to where she’s dropped her backpack.  
  
‘Rose?’  
  
‘Rose!’  
  
‘Rosie!’  
  
‘ _Mum! Dad!_ ’ Rose retorts, mocking the enthusiasm on her parents’ voice, right before she’s plagued by both Ron and Hermione, who rush up to her and lock her in tight breath-choking hugs and drown her complaints with kisses on her face.  
  
‘Would you let go of me!’ she finally gasps out, shoving them both away and flinging herself on the rocking chair by the fire. The only one from the welcome party allowed next to her anymore is the dog, of course, who she eagerly lets jump on her lap, nearly knocking them both over before she finally shoos him down softly.  
  
‘Can’t enter my own childhood house properly, without having to _walk in on my parents at it_ and then _this_ ,’ Rose complains, making a disgusted face at both of her parents while undoing her knee-high boots with a flick of her wand before kicking them off luxuriously. ‘ _What?_ ’ she demands at both her parents, who stand gaping at her, relief and a very vague parental pride mixed in their astonished expressions.  
  
‘We weren’t _at_ anything—’ Hermione beings to defend, then blushes at her own childish statement and stops.  
  
‘You can’t simply come in uninvited and expect us to be awaiting for you arms open— which we are, by the way—’ Ron goes on.  
  
‘Yeah, that’s exactly the kind of welcome I’m good _without_ ,’ snarls Rosie.  
  
‘Always the sentimentalist,’ Hermione rolls her eyes before locking eyes with her daughter, who stares right back, looking serious for just one split second, and then both mother and daughter burst out laughing.  
  
‘Besides, I wasn’t uninvited,’ Rose coughs herself to seriousness and reaches into the inner pocket of her travelling cloak to extract a worn-out piece of parchment that’s been folded over and over and even burnt on some corners by the look of it. ‘ _"We still do"_ , really, you guys, _really_? Never thought you’d fall _that_ low with the clichés,’  
  
‘We just… weren’t expecting… you said you wouldn’t…’ Hermione manages, before covering her mouth with her hands, her laughter abruptly ended and on the verge of tears for a second time that day, this time for very different reasons.  
  
‘I said I _might_ not come. But I also said I might make it. So I’m right either way. Face it, there’s no way I could ever lose,’ Rose shrugs, _Accio_ ’ing a witches’ magazine from the living room table and shuffling through it with controlled interest.  
  
‘How did you get in, anyway? Didn’t hear the door, did we?’ Ron asks, casually leaning against the door.  
  
‘Nah, you wouldn’t even if I actually had come through it now, would you?’ Rose chuckles. ‘But I Apparated indoors anyway.’  
  
‘Oh Rosie! That’s so reckless!’ Hermione scolds.  
  
‘Is it, now?’ she fires up in that very joking way of hers that is never too far from turning sincere. ‘In my childhood home, woman? What do I need to worry about _here_? Or do you expect me to stick by proper manners _in my childhood home_?’  
  
Now it’s Ron’s turn to roll his eyes. _Always the wild card_ , his eyes say as he looks meaningfully at Hermione, who crosses her arms and shoots him an even crosser look: _that’s your blood in her acting out and we both know it_.  
  
‘Looks like I beat Hugo,’ Rose comments nonchalantly, looking low around the room, as if expecting a toddler to crawl into the scene any moment.  
  
‘Beat him at what?’  
  
‘Getting here first.’  
  
‘You—wait. Hugo’s coming _as well_?’  
  
‘Yeah, didn’t he tell you?’  
  
‘He said he might or might not. Same as you,’ Ron says conversationally, his enormous grin rather running the casual effect he’s aiming for.  
  
‘Yeah, well, obviously. That’s what _I_ said, too, and it wasn’t a lie, but, well,’ Rose is fidgeting with her wand, conjuring a small snowy cloud over her head despite herself.  
  
‘Care for some tea?’ Ron asks as he picks up his and Hermione’s mugs and makes his way toward the kitchen.  
  
‘Yes please,’ Rose says gratefully, for the change of subject much more than the offer itself.  
  
But Hermione is far from recovered, or pretending to, anyway. She kneels by Rose’s chair and grabs both her hands into hers.  
  
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were coming? That you were _both_ coming?’ she’s looking intently into her daughter’s face, studying it, drinking in all the little details, desperately trying to take in what’s changed and to find the familiar features again.  
  
Rose grins. Then she shrugs. ‘I thought you knew,’ she simply says.  
  
A loud crack, Ron’s yell, the sound of two, maybe three, mugs shattering on the floor and the dog’s sprint towards the source of all the noise signify her little brother’s arrival in the kitchen.  
  
***  
  
An hour later, while Ron is in the shower (he said he’d better go first, since he’d be quicker than the rest of them, long- and busy-haired as they all were, at which the rest of his family didn’t miss a beat to remind him they at least still had hair), Rose and Hermione find themselves sitting opposite from each other on the kitchen table, finally having that cup of tea, gazing at the sunset outside, coming in filtered through the leaves that frame the window and at Hugo, who, having made a point to arrive home with at least half a dozen of different glass jars each hosting at least one different fascinating and most probably deadly species of marine magical beasts, had requested to turn the stream water in the garden to seawater, so that it could accommodate his pets during his stay at the cottage, and had by now proceeded to play with the dog among the grass and flowers.  
‘You’d think he’d grow a little bit, but nah. He’s still just a child,’ Rose winces over her mug before taking a sip.  
  
Hermione beams at her, and then at the figure of her son outside. Complains and snarky remarks as means of expressing affection are Rose’s forte, and Hermione is too overjoyed by her children’s presence to give them any gravity.  
  
‘So, how’s… everything?’ Hermione asks and Rose snorts playfully.  
  
‘You’ll need to be more specific.’  
  
‘No, I really _do_ want to know _everything_. How’s travelling the world? How’s working on counter-curses for the most dangerous Dark Magic there is? How’s the study of defensive combat magic going on? Is it too dangerous? Have you ever got hurt? Have you thought of coming to work within the country? Are you seeing anyone lately?’  
  
Rose winces again. ‘No, I’m not seeing anyone, and…’ she puts down her mug to study her mother’s face, staring eagerly back at her. ‘You still don’t approve, do you?’ Rose whispers, the room suddenly cold despite the golden light streaming in.  
  
Hermione shallows. ‘Oh Rosie…’ she breathes out, then pauses for a long moment. ‘ _Of course_ I approve. Always have, I think, even back then. I— I didn’t want you to be off because of the danger… and the distance… but oh Rosie, look at you, I could never picture you doing anything other than that, and…’ she trails off. Her eyes travel upon her daughter’s deep tanned face, the explosion of freckles against the dark skin, the warm eyes, _Hermione’s eyes_.  
  
‘You’re happy,’ she says simply. Rose shrugs, her smile not denying the statement. ‘And if I get to see you as happy as that every time you drop by, then you can always be off again.’  
  
‘Oh now _that’s_ poetic,’ Rose groans, nodding sarcastically at her mother’s sentimentality.  
  
‘I love you, Rosie,’ is Hermione’s only reply.  
  
Rose barely looks uncomfortable when she replies “I love you too, Mum,” but, thankfully for her reputation as the heartless shit-eating badass of the family, Hugo chooses that moment to burst in the house, slamming the door behind him loudly, muting his sister’s words.  
  
‘Hey Mum!’ he leans in to kiss his mother on the cheek on his way to the kitchen drawers. ‘Hey, sis!’ he ruffles Rose’s hair as he passes by her too, finally reaching the fruits’ basket.  
  
‘Hello, Hugo. How’s the fish?’ Hermione asks playfully.  
  
‘The fish are great! They’ll make a nice effect for tonight,’ he says excitedly in-between mouthfuls of orange.  
  
‘What do you mean?’ Rose asks curiously, as both witches crane their necks to get a better view of the small lake outside. Nothing looks out of the ordinary to either, but before Hugo can answer Ron comes into the room, freshly groomed and already in his dress robes for tonight.  
  
‘Ooh Dad, looking smart!’ Rose comments, while Ron swaggers around the room, comically showing off, looking particularly satisfied with himself at every exclamation and comment received.  
  
‘Shall you get ready now, love?’ Ron asks, leaning down to kiss Hermione.  
  
‘Yeah, I’ll be off in a sec…’ she says. ‘What are you two going to wear?’ she asks her children.  
  
Rose and Hugo rearrange their expressions back to normal (it has become some sort of reflex for them to switch to disgusted mode at every little display of affection between their parents, ever), and reply she’s brought her own dress robes, of course, and what’s wrong with what I’m wearing now, respectively.  
  
‘There’s no way you’re turning up for our second wedding on that green travelling cloak,’ Ron snaps at Hugo.  
  
‘You need to get going, Mum, doesn’t the bride take longer than anyone to get ready?’ Hugo rushes to change the subject. ‘Perhaps Rosie should help!’ he suggests innocently, then roars with laughter at his sister’s mortified look.  
  
‘Don’t worry, you guys, I won’t be long… and don’t you get like that, Rosie, you don’t have to help, none of you have to do anything on your first day back!’ Hermione offers generously as she gets up.  
  
‘Oh yeah, and I expect the gnomes in the garden will put up the décor? Off to work you two, everything needs to be perfect by the time your mother comes down again!’ Ron barks at his kids in a very poor but nonetheless recognizable imitation of good old Professor McGonagall.  
  
Hermione reaches the staircase, still laughing along with the rest of them, and takes one last, long look at her children before ascending the steps. Hugo is so grown now, more athletic than before and even taller than Ron, his hair as much Hermione’s in its frizzy texture as it is Ron’s in redness, and he’s still all cocky grins and a skyful of freckles on dark skin, and right next to him, and a good two heads sorter, Rosie, with her sharp, energetic movements, hair worn in a bob these days, and an explosion of a thousand colours always lurking below the surface, but on that moment they’re both embraced in golden light, and Hermione has never been happier than on moments like these.  
  
***  
  
Ron must’ve put both Rose and Hugo through hell getting everything ready, because by the time she comes down again, Harry and Ginny still haven’t showed up and yet the place is transformed beyond belief. She walks through the house as if in a daze, and comes to a halt at the door, gaping at the sight of their garden outside. Among the soft lights and the sweet flower smells she is vaguely aware of Rose and Hugo sitting on the grass right by the house.  
  
‘Wow… you guys…’  
  
‘Really outdid ourselves? Yeah we did,’ Rose offers.  
  
‘Nah, that’s barely a regular performance by yours truly,’ Hugo boasts, ‘but I’ll accept the congratulations nonetheless.’  
  
Hermione turns to find them both crouched over a game of chess, still not changed, and she smiles.  
  
‘How come you got her to play with you?’ Hermione addresses Hugo. It’s common knowledge Rose possesses neither the patience for chess nor the grace to constantly accept being outdone by her brother at something.  
  
‘Attack you coward! Snap her in half!’ Rose barks at her bishop, who has apparently got very serious disagreements against taking Hugo’s queen.  
  
‘I promised her a one-on-one duel later,’ Hugo says distractedly, moving his knight to take Rose’s bishop, performing a check mate.  
  
‘Hugo Arthur Weasley! There’s no way you’re doing that!’ Hermione gasps while Rose groans dramatically and throws herself back, as if shot down by a curse.  
  
‘Nah, no one’s duelling on your anniversary, Mum, not on my watch,’ Rose assures her as she props herself on her elbows and cracks her knuckles for emphasis.  
  
Hermione laughs. ‘Where’s your father, anyway?’  
  
‘Oh, he’s busy seating everyone, you’re not allowed to walk in yet!’ Rose says.  
  
‘He’s— _what_?”  
  
‘Everyone’s totally already here, but it was supposed to be a _surprise_ ,’ Hugo says as he glares daggers at his sister. ‘We were supposed to distract you 'till Dad’s signal, but now…’  
  
‘That’s alright,’ Hermione grins. She’s had enough of her own plans ruined before to know not to mind too much. ‘Distract me, then.’  
  
‘Wanna see that new counter-curse I’ve been working on?’ Rose asks, already on her feet, wand drawn.  
  
‘Hugo, what was that lovely effect you said the fish will make for tonight?’ Hermione turns to her son, grinning broadly.  
  
‘Want me to show you?’ Hugo asks excitedly, and he gets up too, eagerly taking his mother arm-in-arm and leading her down a flowery path.  
  
‘Don’t worry, we won’t get close to the guests… here.’  
  
Hermione stops and gasps for what already feels like the millionth time that evening. Right below them, the running creek is _glowing_. And through its smooth surface, she can see so many bizarre little creatures swimming in the water, each one alight with a different colour.  
  
Hugo doesn’t miss a beat naming them to her, and then he’s going on and on about their behaviours and appearances and his eyes are glowing not just because of all the lights, and he’s smiling so much, and then she’s softly put a hand against his cheek.  
  
‘Hugo,’ she whispers, ‘I’m so, so happy for you… and so proud…’  
  
‘Now then, Ma, you’ll ruin your makeup…’  
  
But she shakes her head. ‘Hugo, I… we… we…’  
  
‘Shh, it’s alright… I know, Mum, I love you too…’  
  
‘Oh, saying all the “I love you’s” without us around, now, are we?’ Ron asks, and they both turn to see Ron and Rose, now changed in dress robes herself, coming their way.  
  
‘Oh. You look beautiful,’ Hermione tells her. She’s wearing thin, simple-cut robes in a vivid magenta colour Hermione would have never thought Rose would choose, but compliment her all the same.  
  
Rose grimaces, trying to suppress her grin. ‘Not so bad yourself, either,’ she says.  
  
‘Will you walk us down the aisle?’ Hermione hears herself say.  
  
‘Course we will!’ Hugo cries out, wincing in pain for a split second, but recovering almost immediately and stepping heavily on Rose’s foot in retaliation. ‘Part of the job description, isn’t it?’ and he withdraws his own invitation from his inner pocket, just as worn and folded over as Rosie’s had been.  
  
‘ _Abort_!’ hisses Rose, but is generally ignored, and with an elaborated gesture of his wand, Ron conjures a bouquet of flowers which he unceremoniously shoves into his daughter’s arms.  
  
‘Oh no, I can’t hold _these_! These are _roses_!’ she complains, studying the soft petals and colours with a curious, almost tender expression.  
  
Hugo snickers, but stops once Ron conjures another bouquet for him, and then another, much smaller, for Hermione, who takes it with a smile.  
  
‘Alright, and now, if you will, our guests are all waiting for us!’ he announces to his wife and children.  
  
‘Shouldn’t I get changed first?’ Hugo complains, and is hit straight in the face by Rose’s bouquet as a response.  
  
‘Now then, don’t fight…’ Hermione coos, softly lowering Rose’s flowers before hugging both her children by the shoulders, holding them close.  
  
‘Not family hugs, no, no, no, no…’ Rose tries to make herself sound embarrassed as Ron joins in, and tightly locks them all in embrace.  
  
‘Thanks, you guys…’ Ron whispers when he finally lets the three of them go, all gasping for air and feeling their ribs.  
  
‘We should be thanking _you_ …’ Hugo mumbles. ‘You guys… you were amazing, you were—’ he stops and buries his face in his flowers, only his ears still visible, as red as Rose’s robes. And Rose’s own ears, too, who is now mirroring her brother.  
  
‘He’s right though…’ she manages, her words coming out muffled through the petals and leaves.  
  
‘It’s alright, you guys, you can leave the speeches on us for tonight…’ Ron reassures them, and both his children look up, sighing in relief.  
  
And he’s right, Hermione thinks, as the three of them stand still for one moment longer. There would be a lot of speeches tonight, and vows exchanged again, but none of them are more important or meaningful than the words and actions they exchange on any regular day.  
  
‘Harry’s waiting,’ Ron reminds them, and slowly, as if in a dream, the little family walk their way through their garden.


End file.
